


We Flood the World, but Never Learned how to Swim

by thefrenchmistake



Category: Cursed (TV 2020)
Genre: F/M, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Post-Season/Series 01, Redemption, So many parallels between them let me die, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-28
Updated: 2020-07-28
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:21:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25574977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thefrenchmistake/pseuds/thefrenchmistake
Summary: Where does it begin ?In fire or water ?There is fire and smoke, water filling her lungs, and in-between there is just blood.
Relationships: Guinevere/Arthur, Lancelot & Percival (Cursed), Lancelot/Nimue (Cursed), Merlin & Nimue (Cursed), Morgana & Nimue, Nimue & Percival & Pym (Cursed)
Comments: 41
Kudos: 352





	We Flood the World, but Never Learned how to Swim

**Author's Note:**

> So. “sigh”  
> New series with Daniel Sharman. Didn’t really have a choice. Fell in love with his character as I tend to do with Daniel Sharman (and considering Arthur and Nimue had like, zero chemistry…). I never do this, but I recommend listening to “Love I’m Given” by Ellie Goulding, as it literally inspired this whole piece with how perfect the lyrics are for these characters.  
> Here goes !

_I'm still on fire_

_From all the times I tried to climb higher and higher_

_But you put me in the water now, I drown in desire_

Where does it begin ?

In fire or water ?

There is fire and smoke, water filling her lungs, and in-between there is just blood.

Morgana - though she changed and became something else, she keeps the name that tethers her to who she once was- knows Nimue is alive. Although the powers of the Widow are still a mystery to her, she can know things of the world. Like she knows the Weeping Monk changed his course, like she knows Gawain died, like she knows Arthur drove the willing Fey and the Red Spear back inland to conquer back their territories, Morgana knows Nimue lives.

She tells this to Merlin, who breaks down crying like centuries of pain have been lifted from his shoulders. That is a thing Morgana has never sought to see, the wizard of legend broken and beaten after his daughter’s fall. It lasted for days, his craving for revenge, and she accompanied him both in his blood-thirst and the massacres that followed. It was days where she thought, too, that Nimue was well and truly gone, by the hand of a stupid, insignificant little girl with pride too big for her body.

Morgana hopes Iris burned alive and was devoured by the flames she used to kill Celia.

But four days after Nimue’s fall, four days of slaughter and vengeance, Morgana feels the world shift back into place, and the Sword suddenly seems to glow brighter even as Merlin is the one wielding it. And thus, she speaks the words she knows to be true, and the wizard falls to his knees thanking the Gods he hasn’t worshipped in centuries.

Once his bright eyes are free of tears, he rips the Sword from his hand without a care and forces it into her own.

“Get this to her, Widow. It is hers.”

Morgana tries, but does not seem able to travel the distance, and so only her spirit can fly with the wind to where the frail tether linking Nimue to the world calls her.

Through the leaves and the trees, the moss and the bloody river, Morgana watches the one they call the Weeping Monk make fire to warm the wounded form of her friend, watches him carefully dry her forehead as she mumbles and tosses, besieged by an awful fever. The man changes the bandages around the holes in her chest when he has sent the little boy away to fetch wood or water, and makes her drink and eat with low murmurs of encouragement.

The little boy -Percival- talks and talks and talks, demanding only few information in exchange, andis apparently delighted to have such a powerful man listen to what he has to say.

Nimue cries at night. The Weeping Monk does not sleep until she quietens.

She does not interfere.

Morgana watches.

The connection to Nimue might be wavering and shuddering like a candle flame ready to be whisked away at the first gust of wind, but the tether to the Weeping Monk is stronger than ever.

Although she does not feel his struggles nor his pain, the Widow feels all things attached to this Earth, and the sheer power he radiates is enough to set her mind. She has been watching him with Percival, has been surveilling each and every movement he made, and has yet to decipher an ounce of danger to Nimue or the Fey.

It seems he has changed, indeed.

Thus, Morgana decides to appear to him, black veil covering her face, in order to keep him on the right path and lead her own people to victory. At dawn, while mist settles down on the meadow, weaving between trees and roots, she waits for him to walk as he does every morning around the perimeter. The second she materializes there, he senses her presence and whirls around, hand already gripping the pommel of his sword.

“Who are you ?”

If she were still human, if she were still the Morgana from before, she would be terrified of his straight stance, of his hoarse voice unveiling the past trials of these last days. As it is, she sets her shoulders back and is glad for the black shawl covering her features.

“That is not for you to know yet, Lancelot.”

“How…”

“I know who you are. I know who you were, and who you are trying to become.”

“Are you a demon ?”

She grits her teeth, lets her ire at his words lace her voice when she speaks again.

“Do you know so little of your true religion ? Do you trust so little in your own God ?”

The man tilts his head to the side, eyes narrowed. His fingers promptly trace a cross on his forehead before he inquires :

“What do you want from me ?”

“I saw you in the fire, I saw you in the flames. Covered in blood and reeking of regret. She saw it too, was besieged by visions of you bathing in the sorrow of her people and cutting their wings off.”

He bows his head, in a sign of regret or deference, Morgana herself could not say.

“You seek a place to belong. You seek meaning. Maybe you already realized both are right here. Pledge yourself to what you know is right, and you will atone for your sins, I promise you.”

“What is…”

“Goodbye, Lancelot.”

She disappears in a whisper of the wind, and then she’s in the cavern again, looking up at Merlin.

“Well ?”

“I could not reach Nimue, still. Her connection with the Hidden is too weak, I cannot… I’m sorry, Merlin, I’m trying, I…”

“It’s alright, child. It’s alright. Knowing she is alive is all the comfort I need. Now, you shall go to the other.”

Morgana nods, and closes her eyes.

The water slips through her fingers, pursues its course without interruption. Water is life, water is peace, but for Nimue it is now a symbol of Death as well (filling her lungs, tainted with blood as her eyes desperately blinked up to the unreachable surface, where her father’s scream still echoed through the thunder, filling her throat and every part of her as she opened her mouth in a silent plea to deaf divinities).

The river runs its course as she skims its surface, but Nimue cannot feel it flow in the sinews of her magic anymore.

Since she came out of the water choking on her own blood, nothing has been easy.

Her recovery is painful and still far-away, echos of a war raging reach her ears even as she cannot know what new alliances and treacheries are made and cannot take part in combat.

But the worst of all is that her connection to the Hidden is strained to say the least, a distant whisper humming in her veins; that is neither good nor bad, it just is. But the voices and the darkness have been a part of her her whole life, so coming alive again without them feels wrong.

“You should not wander alone.”

That is another hardship.

When Nimue turns her head towards the intruder, the Weeping Monk -Lancelot, as Squirrel bids her to call him- is looking straight at her, his grey hood promise of sorrow and death forgotten, through those scarlet marks around his eyes.

His eyes. They’ve been in her nightmares for so long, staring at her in visions she does not want to think of anymore, and yet now that she is the object of their attention, they look disturbingly different.

They look tired.

They look like her people’s.

Maybe that is what kept her from killing him as soon as she woke up (to a fire and soothing hands tightening bandages around her shoulder, to the smell of smoke and the phantom pain of arrows burying themselves in her flesh). 

That, or the two wounds in her chest.

In any case, he is alive, and so is she -thanks to him, but she does not understand his motivations, thus she will not indulge him- and they have to deal with each other.

“You should not tell me what to do.”

“I would not dare.”

That is another thing; the Weeping Monk is oddly respectful of her. Sometimes, he will look at her with awe, as if she is the answer to all his questions, yet he will not fear her, and will treat her as someone to protect.

There are a lot of things she wonders about this monster turned man again, but the main one would be this odd devotion he now vows to her.

“Did Squirrel send you ?”

“He grew worried.”

She loves the little boy grown up too quickly, loves him to death, but sometimes his worry makes her fidget and sends her in search of a quiet place to calm herself down. He reminds her of how useless and vulnerable she is, without the Sword of Power in her hand, guiding her movements and giving her the strength and precision to strike.

It seems her usefulness has reached its end.

“How many ?”

“21 dead, 33 injured.”

“And the Paladins ?”

“All dead. A few tried to run, but the Red Spear never misses a target.”

Arthur nods, scribbling the numbers down next to the weapons count and the resources gained on each raid.

“Thank you Guinevere.”

“Do not thank me yet. The war will be over once I’ve sliced Cumber’s throat ear to ear, and ripped his daughters’ hearts out.”

“That’s… graphic.”

She smirks at him, as she has taken to do recently, under blood stained cheeks. Her hands are still gripping her dagger tightly, and Arthur recognizes that from his past. It takes a toll on someone to live in the streets, and letting go of one’s sword after a battle is a near-impossible task.

Guinevere rounds the table to get closer and bend over the maps.

Arthur looks away.

He has found himself looking at her a little too much for his taste lately, at the delicate curve of her cruel smirks and the dark color of her eyes, and the way her hair falls in long waves on her shoulders when she lets it free of the braids.

Arthur does not like it, even less when he reminds himself of Nimue and her soft mouth and sharp words, her long limbs wrapping around his back, the tears she shed right before they said goodbye.

He does not want to think about her - nothing will change the fact that she is dead, wether burned at the cross, beheaded by Carden or thrown off a cliff with arrows in her chest. Rumors tend to differ.

Guinevere’s fingers, roughened from holding a spear and making her way to the top with her fists,point the lines on the map, and she frowns thoughtfully.

“We’re planning the next attack on Shorne. Cumber has taken the port, but has left only a handful of soldiers in order to gather them further south. We take the port town, cut the incoming of their supplies. And then we march on to the next.”

Arthur nods stiffly.

A drop of blood falls on the map, right at the crossroad where Yvoire Abbey used to be.

“Are you hurt ?” He asks immediately, already hovering to search for the provenance of the blood.

She jerks her shoulder to shove his hand away, eyes like coals staring him down.

“I’m fine. Minnow will patch me up.”

“You should’ve gone see her before doing your report.”

“I know what I’m doing, Arthur.”

“Then go see her now.”

“We need to talk about Shorne, and Dover, and the next raid will probably…”

“Take place when you are all in better shape and at full capacity to fight.”

She sends him a dark look like thunder, blood dripping down her forearm, and Arthur has witnessed her fury in war too many times to know that this is a battle he cannot win, if she wishes so.

“Please,” he says, pouring in his voice the mere worry he’s feeling. He sees her body lock down, and adds quickly.

“We can talk about this later, once you are all rested and fed.”

Despite her firm stance and her reluctance to show any sign of vulnerability, she nods. On her way out, she rests a hand on his shoulder and mutters to his grand surprise :

“You should rest as well. You work yourself to the bone.”

And then she is gone, leaving him in a state of confusion and guilt as he can still sense her warmth and the way her eyes burn of a thousands lights when they land on his skin. It is quite different a feeling from Nimue. And he hates himself for it.

“Arthur.”

He unsheathes his sword in one swift movement, whirling around to be faced with his own sister, dressed in an odd sombre attire, giving him for a second the fear of her death.

“Morgana. Are you…”

“I’m quite well, Arthur, do not worry.”

“Gods, I was so scared for you,” he confesses, a heavy breath leaving his lungs. He’s been trying to find his sister amidst the war for weeks. Seeing her here and now is unhoped for, a magical feat for which he thanks God.

“Arthur. Nimue is alive.”

When he was eight, Arthur tried to climb to the top of an oak, to see if there was any WingMoon.

He fell from the height, landing on his back.

Morgana’s words have the same effect as then.

“Where ?”

“I do not know exactly.”

“I’m… I will go, I will find her….”

“No. This is not your place to be Arthur.”

“What do you mean ? Morgana, I need…”

“You need to be here, leading your people while she recovers.”

“She needs me !”

“She does not,” Morgana affirms, like a sentence. Arthur winces. “But the Fey do. The Red Spear does. Lead them, until her return, so she can win the war.”

“Just…”

“Guinevere will help you, Arthur. Together, you will pave the path for Nimue to walk on, and you will bring this land to peace.”

“What happened to you ?”

Morgana smiles, and Arthur would have called it sad if it had shown more emotion; the truth is, she seems withdrawn from him, from the world itself. It scares him more than this war does.

“What happens to all. I came to the Hidden, and it came to me. Do not worry, brother,” she assures him as his eyes widen and his hand reaches out. “I can see the past, Arthur, and I can decipher the future. And your future is here.”

In a split second, before Arthur’s incredulous eyes, The Widow vanishes to otherworldly places.

“When are we going back ?”

The question comes out of nowhere, even as Nimue has been wondering that herself. They’ve been moving through the forest slowly for a few weeks, she guesses, following the river and often settling near lakes. Squirrel’s inquiry, although legitimate, makes anxiety coil in her stomach.

Unwillingly, she glances at the Monk.

His hand is tight on his sword, but he’s looking at her, and what she sees on his face is not what she expected. He’s waiting for her decision.

“I don’t know, Squirrel.”

“But we have to help them, right ? If there is a war…”

“I know.”

“You’re the Queen, you can…”

“I’m not the Queen anymore,” she snaps, more viciously than she ever intended.

At Squirrel’s crestfallen features, she takes on an apologetic expression and explains.

“I’m sorry. But they all think me dead. I am still not able to move like before, much less fight. I haven’t led them to war, and I’m just…”

“They’re our people !”

“Of course they are ! I know that, Squirrel ! But I can’t… I can’t fight without the Sword and I can’t fightwithout a body at full capacity. It is useless to come back now, to give them a mistaken sliver of hope.”

“They have faith in you,” the Monk suddenly speaks up.

She turns her head towards him and narrows her eyes, her ribs and skull aching awfully at the movement.

“It is misplaced. They should trust in the Sword, for it is the Sword that gave me power.”

“It is not.”

“How would you know ?” She hisses, venomous, as Squirrel watches the exchange with wide eyes.

The Monk does not take offense at her tone. He simply answers her, like he has done every time something like this has happened.

“You inspired them. You pushed them to find a way to live, beyond the fight of today, for a better tomorrow. The Sword gave you a certain legitimacy that is not to deny, but you wielded it, and even without it, your people will follow you.”

“And you ? Why aren’t you there already, if you have shifted side ?”

The provocation is spurred only by the accuracy of his words, and she sees him steal a look at the little boy beside them. Her heart beats a little faster at his next words, though she could not explain why.

“I will stay with you both, as long as you allow it.”

“Why ?”

“Nimue,” Squirrel mutters.

“Why ?” She repeats, firmer, and her hands clench in the emptiness, craving her sword to give her a semblance of strength.

The man opens his mouth, eyebrows pulled down in a frown, but no word comes out. It should bring her a sense of victory; it doesn’t.

She’s just left helpless, and devoid of any answer.

“Squirrel, can you leave us please ?” She asks, surprising herself and the two other at the same time.

The boy is about to object, she can see it, but one glance to his companion seems to be enough for him to comply and strut away.

Nimue lets her gaze fall back on the man beside her, lets her anger deflate and lets her shoulders sag a bit.

“Lancelot.”

Met with the surprise in his features, she crooks an eyebrow and tries not to reveal the struggle she’s experiencing.

“That is your name, is it not ?”

“The name I was given, yes.”

“What name do you choose now ? The name of your people ?”

It takes a while for him to answer, but when he does, he looks her in the face and his eyes do not waver.

“I do not have people.”

“But you have beliefs, do you not ?” She insists, because it seems important for some reason, this feels crucial.

“I suppose so, yes.”

“This cross is still in your skull.”

“And reminds me of my failures everyday.”

Nimue bites her lower lip, torn. The second she is about to speak (to say what, she is not certain) the man sinks to one knee at her feet. Her heart jumps to her throat at the sight, even as her eyes widen almost comically. This is not like when she saw him kneel in front of Father Carden in Dewdenn, this is much more reverential, much more devoted and a lot less scared. The Weeping Monk does not look up at her, favoring bowing his head and hiding his gaze from her when he declares :

“From this moment and to my death, you are my Queen.”

“What ?”

She has not allowed herself to think about the after ; not about Arthur or Merlin, not about Pendragon, not about Lancelot’s future whereabouts. So his declaration takes her by surprise, to say the least, and the utter shock and seizing emotion it provokes in her is quite new.

The man looks right in the eye when he vows :

“I hereby pledge my loyalty to you, Wolf-Blood Witch, and to the Fey. If you’ll have me.”

And it is a display of such devotion, such undeserved faith even as he has saved her from the water and healed her wounds, saw her at her most vulnerable, that makes her stare wide-eyed at him. Nimue only finds the common sense to whisper :

“Why would you do that ?”

“A man is no more than what he believes in,” he affirms, still too solemn for her taste, but she supposes the matter at hand requires such sternness. “And I believe in you. In your cause. I will fight for you, with you, to the death.”

“I do not… I…”

The patience in his features makes her want to curl up in a ball. She does not feel ready for this, not for battle, not for assuming the role her people expect from her, not for loyalty, even less from a past enemy and new-found ally.

So Nimue says the sole thing that crosses her mind and does not force her to choose either forgiveness or hatred :

“You should stop following people blindly and find your own path.”

“I am.”

Well. It seems he has made his choice.

It is her turn now.

Caring is not something that comes naturally to him; usually, it does not come at all.

Except this boy has all the echoes The Weeping Monk desperately tries to bury inside Lancelot’s grave, underneath the body and the beliefs and the memories of kindness and magical feats.

Except this woman he dragged from the water has hatred burning the seams of her soul but faith overcomes it, and that is the moment Lancelot realizes all the wrongness of what he has done.

The Green Knight accompanies him everywhere.

The words, whispered in the dark in a soothing voice free of all resentment, struck him like never before, rattled his beliefs and made him question himself, the very essence of his existence.

Was he not born to hunt ? Was he not born to accomplish the will, the work of God ?

Yet the concern in the Green Knight’s voice, moments before his death, still digs inside his soul holes too big to be filled with anything but salvation.

Maybe he still feels Gawain’s faith in his kind, in Lancelot himself, the belief that he would be able to find his way again, to them.

To her.

Lancelot -or whoever he is now- closes his eyes and sighs, rubbing his temples in a way he would’ve never dared to, before.

Before he came here. Before he chose what he thought was right, chose to save an helpless boy overcarrying his Father’s task. Before he let his senses pull him overtly and unconditionally to the half-dead girl lost in the merciless currents of the river.

“Those weeping eyes are not a symbol of grief to me,” she told him once awaken, once Squirrel had caught her up with everything and managed to convince her to accept his aid. “They look the same as when you burned my village down, the same as when you watched and murdered my kin.”

There was venom in her words of truth, there was something he had begun to experience recently; guilt. Doubt.

There is no guilt nor doubt when he kneels before her and swears to die for her cause.

He means every word of it, feels their truth soothe his mind and soul like praying often does, and thus, he is certain this is where he is meant to be.

Still, his own choices hold a mystery he cannot comprehend; there have been hundreds of boys and girls alike, of teenagers with wide eyes and fear plastered on their ashen faces, yet none has ever struck him as much as Percival does. That boy, and his courage, and his faith and loyalty, taught him a lesson and turned him against everything he’s ever believed in.

The Lord works in mysterious ways, Lancelot tries to comfort himself, and he believes that this path will lead him to the light. Killing innocents whose only crime is to be born will not make this world a better place, but seeking redemption and helping them live might.

And this girl, this woman just a little younger than him, she can lead them there. Lancelot knows it intimately, as the Weeping Monk knew it enough to hunt her down. But there is something else as well, blossoming within him, something he is easily afraid of when he reminds himself of her lips and her eyes and the way her body was so much smaller than his when he carried her.

Suddenly buzzing with an odd kind of energy, Lancelot tries to breathe, and when that does not chase away his thoughts, he stands up. Percival only spares him an inquiring glance before he reports his gaze on the wooden arrow he’s making. Nimue, on her part, stares at him with no shame, only curiosity, and he cannot bear it for more than a few seconds.

He feels like a coward when he flees and steps further into the forest, the intent of her gaze still burning his back just as her power burns his fingertips, sometimes, when her rage gets too urgent or her sorrow too great.

Admittedly, the shelter of the woods gives him a sense of protection, but there is no hiding from his mind and the disturbing memories it chooses to bring back to the surface.

The first time she woke up from her fever, the first time her confused thoughts breached the veil of sickness, her eyelids fluttered open weakly. He immediately rushed to her side, Percival at his back, and made her drink despite the reluctance of her half-crazed brain to do so. And then her half-shut eyes focused on his face, her pale lips parting softly.

“I know you,” she said in a whisper speaking of otherworldly power, and Lancelot thought of the archangels God sent to men to grant wishes or be the hand of damnation.

Except he was not a man, and she was no angel.

She reached out, her hand coming towards his face.

He was ready for a slap, not a gentle caress when she laid it there.

Despite his will, he can still feel the way her cold fingertips had touched his cheek. It was the first kind touch he had experienced in years. The Church was not exactly known for its flexibility or tolerance. 

Lancelot looks up at the sky, and feels more lost than ever before.

For the first time since they met, Nimue is the one to seek him out. She has tried, during these past weeks, to cling to the anger, resentment, even the fear this man inspires her, but she finds that she cannot. There are too many interrogations running through her mind, a desire to understand his actions too strong for her to fight against. She will not forgive, of course not, but understanding him is the key to either his downfall at her hand or her finally trusting him.

It’s his turn to explain, now, and his turn to convince her.

She finds him in a strategic post, as his training has taught him ; from up here, the view is unbothered by trees or rocks, but still, they are hidden in the shapes of the forest.

It is quite beautiful, and reminds her of home.

“I lost everything,” she whispers when she has stopped next to him and enough time has passed.

She might be alive after nearly passing away, but Nimue has never felt more dead.

The Weeping Monk has the decency of not contradicting her.

He does not talk much, anyway.

“I lost everything to you and your brothers, so tell me why I should entrust you now with Squirrel’s safety, with mine.”

“I do not wish you any harm.”

“I get that. But I still don’t know why, and I am still unsure regarding your reasons.”

He stays silent a long time, long enough for her to think he won’t answer. But she awaits, because she has learned since her awakening that he is not a man of many words; he is not gifted with them, as he’s been seen and made a weapon and a tool to track others his whole life.

Finally, when she has her eyes closed and chin up to feel freely the wind caressing her face and whispering in her ear, he speaks up in a low voice :

“I know what it is like.”

“What ?”

“To look upon your hands and find them soaked in blood. To wonder how it came to this.”

“You don’t know shit,” Nimue cannot help but hiss at him, eyes still shut as to not see his face, eager to have him drop the subject, drop everything, turn on his heels and leave her be.

“I know you are scared to live without the sword to give you meaning. Or guidance. I know you are scared and you are lonely.”

“You don’t know shit !” She opens her eyes and snaps, irises darkening and cinder shoved down her throat, because how dare he ? How dare he stand there and say that to her,who has tried to protect her people from him while he slaughtered them all ?

How dare he stand here, and pretend they are the same ?

“You turned against your own kind,” Nimue spits in his face, not caring for one second about his supposed change of heart or the way he does not wear his hood anymore and let his hair grow wild, covering the bloody cross on his skull. “You killed innocents, you spread terror and lies and blood wherever you went, praised the supposed light of your God even as you laid amongst snakes buried in your own secrets. You do not know me, you do not know my people, and you do not get to tell me those things.”

He does not answer, favors silence over words, and she cannot blame him for that, yet she does all the same. Maybe his screaming would be better, closer to the cursed and ominous myth he has always been in her mind, closer to the monster spitting venom with a bloody mouth foaming like and enraged beast’s.

She grits her teeth to keep her own poison contained.

When he looks at her again, she deflates.

He does not speak, still, but his hand stretches to the side, and his fingers brush the tree leaves with more gentleness than expected. The delicacy of his movement is at war with the fear perceivable on his face, but neither can hide the slow appearance of green patches, like smooth scales, on his skin.

Nimue gasps.

Guinevere does not have the habit of defending a selfless cause - too dangerous, too close to home, too emotional- even less a cause to defend the innocents wronged. Her own goal is to slit the throats of all Cumber’s kin, and bathe in the blood of the three women that betrayed and burned her hopes and dreams to the ground.

But even she has to admit that it feels good.  
Not to slit Paladins’ throats (although that, too) but to see families reunited, to watch as Fey people take back their lands and communicate with the Earth and the leaves and the rivers to let their magic flow. Families settle down, soldiers learn what it is to be at peace, and children regain their innocence through games in the valley and swordplay in the middle of the camp.

She never had that chance. Giving it to those children makes this whole shitstorm worth it.

Refraining a sigh, Guinevere looks to the side.

Arthur is here - he always is- talking strategy with some soldiers whose names she never bothered to learn. Always working, that one, she thinks with a smirk that she tries to hide in her ale.

“You’re dripping blood on the floor.”

The sigh she lets out is more for the show than anything else as the fake Fey healer, Pym, sits next to her and begins unpacking her stuff.

“What are you doing here ? You can’t handle your liquor.”

“I’m looking for you. You never come to the healer, so the healer comes to you.”

At the last word, Pym draws the cloth away from Guinevere’s shoulder to take a good look at the wound.

“Mother….” The warrior hisses as the red-head applies a gauze to her collarbone. In the light of the torches, a glinting catches her eye; the round silver medallion is swaying in the dark at the end of the string around the pale neck.

Fuck, she misses Dof.

“So, you finally good at stitching ?” She taunts, gulping another cup of ale down when Pym presses harder, but the pain makes her forget a bit her lost companion.

“Learning on the spot will do wonders.”

A smile fights its way on the chief’s face. The girl has grown in the time they’ve known each other (even more so since Dof died). She never would’ve dared confess her lack of knowledge a few months ago.

She isn’t scared now, that’s for damn sure.

“Do you have someone waiting for you ?”

The question is asked bluntly, almost harshly, and Guinevere wants to slap herself right away. She does not do sentimentality.

She hates sentimentality, she reminds herself after a glance at Arthur, laughing in the night, his dark skin the theatre of dancing flames and his hair falling on his chest.

Pym keeps silent as she starts stitching her up, and answers only once Guinevere has buried her mouth back in ale. Drinking can stop her talking, and that’s always a plus in her mind.

“No. But I’m waiting for someone.”

“Really ?”

The smile on the red-headed face brightens the whole night when she cuts the thread digging her shoulder and looks her in the eye :

“Nimue.”

Guinevere makes a sound, eyebrows jumping up. She is one of the few to know the woman is alive (Arthur could not keep it a secret from her), and although she is glad for Arthur, she still doesn’t really know how to feel about it.

“Ah, the famous Wolf-Blood Witch.”

“Well, she’s more like a sister to me than a Witch, but I suppose. You know, she was my best friend… is my best friend, and I thought… After Carden and the Weeping Monk and Gawain dying, I thought we would all be lost. But she prevailed, and even when everyone believes her dead, still she prevailed. She will lead us to victory, I know it.”

“That’s a nice fantasy, Minnow, but your Witch is not here now.”

“She will come. And I assure you, you will like her.”

“I doubt that,” snorts the head of the Red Spear.

“Why would you ?”

“Well, as I said, she’s not here. We’re fighting her war without her. I know she was thrown into her place because of a goddamn sword and not because of merit. We don’t exactly sound the same.”

“You’re not the same. But Nimue’s only goal is peace for her people, and she will be merciless when she needs to be, just like you. Trust me, Guinevere,” Pym smirks, drying her hands with a not-so-white towel, “You’ll like her. You even have the same taste.”

That last bit is sent with a glance in a laughing Arthur’s direction, and before Guinevere can kick her shin or bury a knife in her shoulder-blade (who is she kidding, she would never, Dof would murder her once in Valhalla), the girl is gone with a snicker.

Guinevere does not blush, but she knows her last stop before going to sleep will be Arthur’s tent, wherever that may lead them.

During the next days, Nimue does her best not to think about the way she fled the display of his allegiance and hasn’t addressed the matter since.

She is also far more civil towards him, though there is still a part of her burning with an angry fire she cannot quench. The Weeping Monk -Lancelot, as she reminds herself each time- gives her the space she needs and does not talk to her unless talked to. He sticks to Squirrel’s side quite often, teaching the boy how to hunt animals in the forest, how to spot tracks of horses and soldiers, how to determine their numbers…

If it were up to her, Squirrel would have never had to learn those things; as it is, she is grateful for the Monk’s patience and experience.

As is she when, after having tried many times to wield a sword and move with it like in battle, he blurts out of nowhere, a bit hesitant :

“I will spar with you, if you desire so.”

And for a second, she is grateful he did not say teach.

The humiliation is quite big enough as it is.

“Very well.”

“I shall spar, too,” Squirrel exclaims, jumping to his feet and surging for a stick.

For a split second, a ghost of a smile passes on the Monk’s lips, like he has forgotten how to be among the living and express himself as such, and the sight takes her breath away.

Sometimes, she almost forgets he is a person, and what is more, a Fey. Seeing his smile unsettles her as much as it spurs inside her the desire to see more of it.

“Here, Percival,” he says, handing the boy a blade. It is vibrant, smooth and sharp, a little longer than a dagger. “Better to get acquainted with weapons early.”

Unfortunately, she agrees with him.

The heat of the day and the sheer intensity of their sparring leads them to shed clothes. Though she perceives his reluctance at loosing his shirt, she does not mind it, and loses her own jacket in order to be more comfortable and to keep a closer look at the bandages wrapped around her upper body.

For a second, she wonders how he learned to tend to wounds with such efficiency, but finds out she does not want to know. Once she has folded her shirt and repressed a chuckle at Squirrel’s slump body against a trunk, she turns to face the man and is taken aback by the sight.

His body is like the work of a craftsman, built by years of hard training and a war that explains the invisible weight that seems to burden his shoulders and press them down.

Fresh bruises spatter his ribs in purple and yellow blossoms, suddenly reminding her of Squirrel’s tale, one of courage and a force of will Nimue could not associate with that man before.

Maybe she can now.

“Are you still fit to fight ?” She asks stiffly, reluctant to show any sign of compassion yet incapable of helping herself.

If the corners of his mouth are anything to go by, he is amused, though she cannot fathom why.

“Are you ?”

Her eyebrow arches.

She might not have the Sword, but she’ll show him what the Wolf-Blood Witch is capable of.

His fighting reminds her of a dance, quite paradoxically, as each movement is sharp and has for sole purpose efficiency ; to inflict maximum damage on the opponent. The Weeping Monk is more than talented, he is astounding. The way he considers the sword part of his own body is quite different from Arthur, who was all flourish and flexibility. Lancelot is sheer strength and focus, eyes scanning each and every flaw and loophole in her stance and movements, pointing them out loud so she can rectify them.

She thinks she does pretty well, all things considered, even though the weapon in her hand seems ridiculously small and lightweight compared to the memory of the magical Sword.

Although the marks looks like bloody tears running down his cheeks, Nimue realizes that from up close, they are embers and ashes embroidered in his skin. It is a testimony of his origins. And Nimue, despite all that she loathes about him, cannot help the wonder and respect he has spurred within her.

She sees the scars. Of course she does.

They are hard to miss, splattered all over his back like a tapestry of violence and an exposed timeline of battles, some too deep to ever heal, others too high to be self-inflicted. Each movement makes his muscles flex and roll under his skin smoothly, but the marks themselves convey an impression of pain Nimue can’t help but focus on - they remind her of her own scars and her own pain, of boys tying her to a tree and a girl laughing out of pure jealousy, of _witch_ spit in her face like _abomination_ has been spit in his.

She wonders, for a few moments, if he does this to himself, to purge corruption from his own body and beat the demonic out.

That particular hypothesis is quickly ruled out, as the marks appear to be old (not old enough though), half-scarred but still crimson. Maybe he did it, though.

Why does she want to know anyway ? It won’t change a thing.

But for some reason, she wishes to know, she wishes to comprehend the origins of these scars, intimately linked to his past, intertwined with every part of who he was and who he is today.

Thus, the idea stays in her mind for hours, lingering even after their sparring is over and his shirt is back on. Squirrel has sparred with Lancelot as well, and she found it too hard to tear her gaze away from his patient teaching, characterized by softness and not exigence, which is not good for her heart. Once they have spent the day training and she has managed to offer him water without blushing like a five years old, Squirrel runs to the river under her advices to be careful in the nightfall, and then it is just Lancelot and her, the trees she can feel cackling at her hesitation and the fire she has just lit.

With a little jerk of her head, Nimue asks:

“Where did you get those ?”

The man looks down at the fire, as if reminiscing another era and for the first time, his face behind the flames does not remind her of villages being burned to the ground.

“Where did you get yours ?”

“A dark spirit. Lured me out in the night when I was eight. Tried to kill me.”

“But you survived.”

“That’s apparently what I do,” she says, more like it’s a burden and not a skill.

“Mine do not encompass such a great story, I’m afraid.”

“Tell me all the same.”

His tongue comes out to wet his chapped lips before he states :

“Those scars were my own cleansing.”

And it probably makes sense, now, his actions and his mercilessness.

“By Father Carden ?”

He nods.

And he tells her. From the Ash Folk to the crusade to the melted flesh and back cut open with lashes, to the flagellations and cries and prayers and sermons given at night under a bloody rain, to the sword put in his hand well after a cross was carved in his heart and on his skull, to the hatred burning his soul and the darkness he could not find the Lord in, Lancelot tells her everything.

The most dreadful thing is not his story, far from it, nor how it shaped him. The most awful thing for Nimue is the compassion she can feel drumming through her veins, the pure suffering he went through as he was torn from his people and brought into a merciless and cruel world, how he was turned inside out physically as well as mentally to be the answer to the Church’s fear and the sword to its cruel hand.

What frightens her is that, despite everything, she can see the boy who was taken away and molded as wished, and the man who found his way again. It is far harder to admit one’s faults and stray from the wrong path when grown up, Nimue knows that too well.

“I was forged in fire and ashes. I know what it is like to fight against something within yourself.”

“What are you fighting for now ?” She whispers, eager to know what led him back to the people he has hated for so many years.

His mouth does not answer, but his eyes do, finding the recumbent Squirrel in a heartbeat. In his face, she witnesses echoes of herself, remains of a will to protect and save.

And that is when she knows.

That is the moment Nimue decides to trust him.

The night is dark, and Merlin can barely make out the outlines of the castle when he arrives on horseback. The ruins hold an incredible power he has missed dearly, the power of memories taken away or gifted back. Here, past and present meet, and Merlin hopes he will have the chance to contact Nimue in this place where love is the key to magic.

And his love, as his magic found again, is too great to be contained, and too great to be patient.

Merlin needs his daughter, needs to see her face and hear her voice. The Widow has his trust, but his miserable soul is begging for proof and the Sword in his hand, under the bloodlust, craves another’s hand.

He knows now that this Sword belongs to her.

It is in her blood, after all. And he trusts she can be true to herself, and wield it with goodness in her heart.

Gods above, how he wishes to be by her side.

He dismounts once he has reached the threshold of what was once a sacred place, and gathers all that is needed to drift in a dreamless trance where he hopes to reach her. Slicing his palm with a knife is a practiced gesture, familiar in its link to the Hidden. With the wounded hand, Merlin grabs the pearls, staining them with his blood, and closes his eyes.

The rosary between his fingers burn a little, and his magic roars at being back inside his body, at being freed from its chains.

He calls out to Nimue.

He feels her before he sees her face, feels her faint magic and her blood calling out to him. It feels like coming home, although Merlin never had anything of the sort (the closest was Lenore, but see how it ended up; it was never home). When she jumps in his arms, he decides to never leave her side again, to never be deprived of the flowery smell of her hair and the way her arms are wound up too tight around his neck, and the way she breathes shakily in his collarbone.

He thought her dead.

Having her back makes him believe in the Gods again.

Time never has any meaning in this place between dream and reality; but it truly loses all importance when Nimue finds her rightful place between her father’s arms.

There is no way to know when he finds the strength to finally let her go, nor how they end up sitting on the floor, facing each other. Nimue refuses to tell him of her trials, a shadow overcoming her eyes when she speaks of it, but demands to know everything the Fey have done and lived through these last months.

Merlin tells her, softening some of the blows. Even though he knows she can take it, he does not want to add to the guilt she must already be feeling. He tells her of Arthur and Guinevere leading together an army whose force is to be reckoned with now that they have found meaning again, and of Pym whose role as a healer has become essential to her as well as to the army. He does not tell her of the Widow, simply declares that Morgana is fine.

Nimue drinks his words like she’s been waiting for them since she woke up.

She probably has.

“You have lost yourself before, Father,” she eventually mutters, eyebrows scrunched in a thoughtful frown. “Do you believe you have found salvation ?”

“There is not salvation for me, dear one. No forgiveness can be earned for my sins. They are too numerous and too great to hope for anything other than Hell. But do not fear, Nimue, you…”

“It is not me.”

“Ah. Is it the Ash boy, then ?”

Her eyes snap up to his. Merlin discerns, in the shadows rippling across her pupils, a hint of guilt.

He almost smiles at her innocence, at the purity of her heart.

“How…” she shakes her head decisively. “It does not matter. Do you believe it is the right choice, to trust him ? To… To let Squirrel get close to him ?”

“Squirrel, uh ?” Merlin teases, and the slight pink of her cheeks tells him he is right. “I have been where he is now, Nimue, except my bloodlust was born out of ambition for power, for riches, for anything that would make me more than I already was. I do not have any hope of redemption, nor do I believe that the Gods, whoever they may be, guide us to our true path. But I do believe in second chances, and that a man can be better, if he steps on the right path himself.”

“I trust his sincerity, Father. I am not sure I trust mine.”

“Have some faith in yourself, child. Trust your instincts and follow your heart. Do not make the same mistake I did with your mother. Do not let fear stand in your way. You are too great to be held back by obstacles such as those. Accept your people’s trust. Accept your own magic. Lead, as you were born to do.”

That is the moment Merlin presents the Sword of the First Queen to her, reveling in the stuttering of her breath and the immediate twitching of her fingers, already aching for a fight.

She is his daughter alright.

But her eyes are wide with apprehension when she looks up at him.

“Do not worry, child,” he says, willing his words to be soothing. “You will not fall as I did. This is yours to tame and to wield, and I have no doubt you will be the most powerful Fey ever born.”

Only then, and still without a word, does she dare wrap her hand around the pummel and rise the sword to her face, admiring the glowing inscriptions engraved in the blade.

“Thank you, Father,” she says in a choked voice.

Her arms lock around him once again and he returns the embrace gratefully, until he feels her form fading away.

His magic feels it as well, running its course away from this place where it has been contained for too long. His daughter seems to feel it too, as she pulls back from him with a regretful expression.

Feeling her drift away second by second, Merlin grips her shoulders and looks her in the eye before saying :

“I love you.”

Nimue smiles with candor and it is the most beautiful sight he has ever been granted.

“We will meet again, soon. Until then, fight for me as well as for the Fey.”

Merlin does not have the time to answer before she disappears into thin air.

They are a few days away from the camp where the Fey army is settled, and Nimue finds herself scared of what is to come. Oddly enough, the war itself does not make her afraid, not now that she has her Sword.

But reunions do. Stepping up and taking her name and title again, that terrifies her to no end. Maybe this is her excuse for seeking Lancelot out, for siting a bit too close to him, until his warmth makes her feel safe and leads her to utter the following words :

“How did you find me, in the river ?” She asks, because she has never dared to.

Somehow, it does not seem as scary as it did before.

“I could feel you.”

“Like all the other Fey ?”

“No. No,” he repeats, eyebrows scrunched in confusion. “It was different. I could…. I can feel you, not as a Fey, but as… something more. I thought…. For a while, I thought it was the power of the Wolf-Blood Witch, the Hidden calling out to me because of my nature, as it did with everyone else. It was not.”

“What is it, then ?”

“I do not know, but in the Abbey, I…”

He shakes his head, both in shame of his actions at the time and in a gesture of his ignorance on the matter. His eyes, when he looks up, are more burning than the embers of the fire he lit to warm Squirrel up.

“I am drawn to you, Nimue, for a reason I cannot fathom. Maybe… Maybe the Lord has put you in my path.”

“Maybe the Hidden has put you in mine.”

Lancelot bows his head but not before she can distinguish, on his twitching lips, something resembling a smile. For a wild second, she wants to reach out and touch the unfamiliar shape of it, see what it is made of, how it came to be.

Nimue fists her hand just as he adds, unforgiving. 

“I do believe I was meant to find you.”

Regret is painted in his every pore like on a beautifully complex painting telling of sorrow and torments, and Nimue wishes she could soften it a little, smoothen his edges as to get closer.

She has believed him a monster and a curse, and maybe he truly was, but his presence and loyalty are now a reassurance to her. She does not feel human anymore, and when he looks at her, she feels like a deity of some sort.

It does not scare her.

“You know sacrifice intimately, don’t you ?”

His features turn contrite, his hands twitch with uneasiness, and she knows it is more because of her tone than the words themselves.

“You have sacrificed everything for your people.”

To give back a little of what he offers her henceforth, she states :

“And you have sacrificed everything in the name of your cause. If there’s one thing I cannot fault you for, it's your loyalty.”

“I had no loyalty to my own kind,” he mutters, a bit of desperation lacing around the rough thorns that are his words.

“But you were loyal to the only one you thought mattered, and who made you believe you mattered.”

“I fled the Paladins.”

“Because you wished to protect Squirrel. Because you saw the light behind their dark lies.”

At the heartache written all over his face, Nimue laughs despite herself. The awestruck look he gives her is enough to make her stomach churn oddly, and she cannot help her smile when she declares :

“I already accepted your pledge of loyalty, Lancelot. Do not try to change my mind.”

“I… apologize.”

She stifles a laugh again.

He seems so curious at her amusement, it is amazingly sad. It is as if he has not seen it in a while, as if he is estranged to happiness.

His hair is longer now, and the cross she hates so much is hidden by his golden curls. Maybe it is a sign from the Hidden.

In any case, it is time to move on. 

They reach the camp two days later, at dawn. The sky is white, Lancelot’s curls are golden with the sun rays, and her heart is beating too hard against her ribs when the rows of tents come in sight.

After the heartfelt reunion with Arthur, the sight of the Weeping Monk by her side leads to a screaming match. Well, screaming on his part, more annoyance on hers.

“God, Nimue, have you forgotten what he did to the Fey, to _you_ ?”

“I have not forgotten, nor have I forgiven,” she eventually snaps at his provocation, whirling around to look him in the eye. “He is a tool we cannot spare right now, an asset we cannot waste. You said it yourself, he is one of the finest warrior this land has ever seen.”

“But he is…”

“Willing to fight to death for our people. Tell me this is not what we need right now, and I will send him away; tell me we will win this war without him, and I will order him to leave.”

As expected, Arthur opens his mouth but no sound makes it out.

Nimue breathes deeply.

“I know this is a… complicated matter. But I cannot in good conscience refuse him in our army.”

“Just… Be careful, Nimue. It might cause riots. He may be more trouble than he is worth.”

“I am careful. But I… we need him.”

“Really ? We ? Why do I feel like you’re not telling me something ?”

Nimue closes her eyes, tired all of a sudden. She does not want to lie. She does not want to fight. They have had enough of both to last a lifetime. Finally, she admits, just above a whisper.

“He understands.”

“Other people understand you, Nimue. I do, I…”

“You don’t,” she interrupts ruthlessly. Her time away has sharpened her edges, roughened her too much, and looking at Arthur now does not provoke what it did at first. It was the thrill of the unknown, the attention of a seductive man and then a friend, having faith in her.

The thrill is gone.

What was born from Lancelot’s tending to her wounds and showing remorse as well as devotion is another thing entirely.

“You don’t, Arthur,” she repeats, getting up and sighing a bit at his hurt expression. “We were both burdened with a task we did not ask for and couldn’t comprehend. I understand him like no one else, and I believe he understands me.”

It takes a few more minutes of Arthur sulking and biting his tongue, but eventually, they make it out of the tent to where Guinevere and Lancelot are talking -as much as one can talk with the silent Monk- and this last turns his body fully towards them both, awaiting his sentence.

“You nearly killed me,” Arthur states, plain as day. Nimue resists rolling her eyes, and for the first time in a long, long while, she feels young again.

Lancelot’s mouth makes something akin to a grimace as he answers hesitantly :

“I am sorry.”

“Does it matter ?”

“I know I cannot atone for my sins in this life, but I will do everything in my power to see these lands returned to your people, and to see peace blossom once again between Men and Fey.”

Arthur takes a deep breath in before nodding as stiffly as a bamboo stick.

“We cannot spare your skills right now. But know that I have my eye on you.”

Guinevere smirks, leaving by Arthur’s side in the morning, whispering something in his ear once she’s too far to be heard.

Well.

Things have changed, indeed. Nimue turns to her companion with a tired smile on her face, and tilts her head to the side.

“Let’s begin.”

He nods, all intent and focus. Her power aches at the sight.

Legends are made, they are not born. They are shaped and interpreted, and maybe Nimue wants to rewrite this legend of the Weeping Monk and turn it into Lancelot’s story.

Pym jumps on her as soon as the she hears the news in a whirlwind of pale skin and red hair.

Despite all the urgent tasks she needs to accomplish, Nimue considers primordial to reunite with her best friend and find out all she can about her life amongst the soldiers and wounded.

She adapted surprisingly well, Pym tells her, and has learned to love her job as a healer.

“And you ? You disappeared with Merlin and Morgana, and everyone said you were dead, that you fell, that….”

“I’m alive, as you can see,” Nimue interrupts her, unwilling to go down that road when she has just come back to her people.

“And with the Weeping Monk,” Pym stutters. “What is with that ?”

“I… He saved Squirrel. And he saved me. A change of mind, I suppose.”

“Yeah,” her friend says, unconvinced, “more like a change of heart.”

“What ?”

“Oh, did you know that Guinevere has already killed one of Cumber’s daughters ?”

And then she manages to tell her from beginning to end everything that has happened since Nimue gave herself up. There is more detail in her story than Merlin gave her, considering her father was with her at the time and not on the beach with her people. It becomes quite clear, then, that they have a fighting chance.

They can win this goddamn war.

The fact that she is alive and well does not stay a secret for long. Not even an hour after her arrival, people are making their way to the main tent, seeking to catch a glimpse of the Wolf-Blood Witch returned from the dead.

Nimue gives them what they want, even gives them a speech about how she is alive and how they’re going to make the Red Paladins pay, but the words feel forced and she is exhausted by everything.

That is just the start.

Soon, they need to talk strategy and to count the rations, count the mouths to feed, find medical supplies. Everyone does not always agree on everything, but Nimue has to admit that the cooperation is far smoother than it ever was with her, at the beginning. To her relief, no one blames her absence, nor her return, and if some are averse to taking advice from her at first, it does not last long. Guinevere turns out to be a sharp and practical mind used to battle and brawls, while Nimue thinks on the larger scale. The combination of both is what they need, and the two women work well together, as Arthur focuses mainly on training the men in combat.

Archery being one of their primary advantages, they need the best available.

That’s Lancelot.

Ah, Lancelot is another story in camp. There is no word to describe exactly what happens when the legendary Fey Queen comes back from the dead accompanied by a past mortal enemy. Some believe she bewitched him, some believe the opposite. Some say he has always been her pawn, others that he is a spy. In most of those unfounded rumors, they are bound together, be it by a spell or a curse, a promise or a blood pact. Some dare to utter the possibility they are lovers, but Nimue does not let it linger in her mind. She has other matters to attend to, and so does he. Lancelot keeps his distance with the people, except with Percival and Nimue, and is worth a hundred men on the battlefield.

People begin to see that. And people start to believe.

After a particularly violent confrontation in a meeting, during which everyone disagreed on what move to make next and insults were yelled and Guinevere even drew her weapon until Arthur pulled her back, Nimue feels more like a child than ever before. A child with the fate of thousands on her conscience.

More than ever before, she needs advice.

She searches for Lancelot because, at the end of the day, he is the one who knows the Red Paladins best, and whose advice she trusts most (and is it not ironic ?).

When she finds him, he is surrounded by kids, and looks as though he’s standing besieged in the midst of battle. It is enough to bring an unwilling smile to her face.

They turn around him, ask questions about the marks on his face out of curiosity and not anger, bid him to display his weapons and a few movements, cheer at the sight under the careful eye of Squirrel.

Children have an ability to forgive often worn out once adult.

Nimue hopes the end of this war will allow them to grow in peace and be gifted a serene life ruled by kindness.

The children notice her presence first, and it says a lot that he doesn’t feel her coming to his elbow. It speaks of trust, it speaks of a liking for peace and calm far from his constant vigilance.

“Lancelot ?” Nimue interrupts softly.

He turns his face towards her, and she realizes she miscalculated when his lips are just a breath away. It strikes her as odd, suddenly, that she has focused so much on his eyes when his lips are so daunting. And maybe, just maybe, he lets his gaze fall for one second to her mouth before he regains control of himself.

“I need to speak with you.”

With a nod, he raises to his feet and no words are exchanged until they’ve reached the tranquillity and intimacy of the tent. Once inside, she sets her weapon on the table. It already feels like the Sword is draining her, drawing what is left of her power until all of it is gone. Each time she takes it in her hand, her magic roars, but each time she lets it go, the steel takes a piece of it, chips away at her magic, and Nimue fears this will lead to her death.

She only hopes she will see her people to victory.

Only then, safe and unarmed, does she dare face him.

His features seem to have softened in the weeks they have been here, which is surprising. She likes it a lot. She exposes the problem to him, takes to pacing in the middle of her rant because she does not care if he sees her disheveled and annoyed. Out of all people (except maybe Pym), he is the one she can be honest with in all her helplessness or frustration.

“What would you have me do ?” Nimue eventually asks, stopping to turn her head towards him. 

His eyes do not widen and his stance does not change, but she can read the surprise in his features all the same.

“You cannot show mercy nor restrain now. They will take advantage of it. You need to strike, hard.”

“What if we don’t strike ?” Nimue blurts out, an idea surging into her mind. “What if we let them come to us ?”

“How would you…”

“They are the one who want a territory. Cumber will march if we let him.”

“Why would you let him ? Do you plan to fight an open battle ?”

“No. I intend to strike him where he expects the least.”

Another war meeting is gathered as soon as she gets her ideas in order, and then their biggest ally as well as enemy is time.

“We shall march to the forest, take cover under the trees,” exposes Nimue to the Chiefs, reunited around the map she’s currently tracing. “Let word that we’ve taken Hastings reach Cumber. Let them come to us. We leave a handful of soldiers in town, to organize the comings of town-folk and give the illusion we want.”

“Both Red Spear and Fey should be visible,” Arthur adds. “And there must be a rumor going round according to which Nimue is in town. It is imperative they believe the army is there, trapped inside the walls. We cannot take the risk of the secret getting out.”

“Arthur, you’ll stay inside.”

“What ? Nim…”

“I need you inside,” she insists, staring him straight in the eye, discarding the others. “They know you have been leading the armies, they know your name and they know your face. We cannot take the chance. You will stay and plan from within.”

“What about the Red Spear ?”

“Spread the word that we are planning an attack on Grimsby. It will explain Guinevere’s absence,” she says, nodding a the warrior who smirks faintly, “and help us determine a time of attack. If the Paladins are smart in the least, they will want to attack at our weakest. They’ll besiege the town, and we’ll come out of the forest on the other side. They’ll be stuck in between.”

And thus, the plan is in motion.

“Do you think we have a chance ?” She asks the evening before they leave the town and go settle in the forest. The cup of wine in her hand is not the first of the night, and probably won’t be the last, and the fire she’s intently staring into reminds her of the lives lost in Dewdenn and the Ash People almost struck out from the map.

With the exception of the man by her side.

He is standing, but she knows he would sink to his knees without question if she asked him to, and this knowledge burns more than the flames rippling in the hearth.

“I do. You have given them hope,” Lancelot says, and one of his rare smiles lights up his face in the twilight.

“Do you ever regret it ? Saving me ?”

It seems she wishes to be a bit morbid, tonight.

“No.”

“And Father Carden ?”

It takes more time for his answer to come, but it comes, as it does every time she asks him a question, however intimate it may be. He gives himself entirely to her, and if at first she was too scared and too shy to discover all the things he could offer, she has now taken a liking to it and she unfolds him, piece by piece, learns every corner of his soul and every thread that makes the tapestry of his troubled past.

When he speaks again, it is one of the rare times he lets anger lace his voice.

“He ripped me from my family and tore me apart until I was void. Until I was nothing more but an angry and hateful beast.”

“As much as I loathe to admit it,” she speaks up, still not looking at him, but she knows he moves closer, “it was not hatred. It was devotion. To a cause, to a person, it does not matter. Do you feel killing those people brought you closer to your God ?”

“I thought it did. Not anymore.”

“But you are still killing people,” she mutters.

She hears the ruffling of clothes, and then he has bent his tall frame so he can crouch before her and look her in the eye.

Gods, he is beautiful. She wishes she could wipe those tears off his cheeks, but he has grown attached to them, and Nimue has finally learned to see them as lines in a story, strokes in a painting. They are a part of him, and since they arrived here, he has lost the title of the Weeping Monk despite the marks. This position, the way he looks at her, the paleness of his complexion and the warmth of his breath when he speaks are all elements that she loves, as they often remind her of his humanity.

“You fight against hatred. You are taking your lands back. You are helping people, out of the goodness of your heart, not out of ambition or bloodlust or intolerance. You are good, my Queen, and you should never doubt yourself like that.”

“Don’t you doubt me ?”

“Never.”

She nods, once, trying to take a bit of his faith for herself.

In a bold second, she rests her hand atop his, ignoring the way he almost jumps at her touch.

She seeks his gaze to insist on her next words.

“Thank you, Lancelot.”

Apparently taken aback, he takes a few seconds to gather his thoughts and says, a bit oblivious to everything :

“What for ?”

Her smile widens some, cracking the corners of her lips, but she does not care as long as he keeps looking at her like that (it is a little awestruck, deeply disturbing, and thrilling like nothing has ever been in her life, sending warmth echoing throughout her entire body).

“For saving Squirrel. For saving me. Everything you did afterwards. Everything you are doing now.”

“I am…”

“Stop,” she interrupts, not ungently, as she squeezes his hand. She leans forward just a bit, just enough for the situation to become intimate and secretive, with her hair falling around them, brushing his wrists like dark silk.

She sees his shiver, and for a split second, she believes he is going to kiss her. She is not opposed to the idea, far from it; she would like to taste the new-found joy on his lips and wrap her tongue around the laughter he rarely lets out, but with which she gets more familiar as it becomes more common, among the children and with each interaction he has with Squirrel.

But he sees himself as an abomination, and although she intends to change his mind on that, it is a long process.

“Learn to take a compliment, Lancelot.”

And there it is, the shyness she is getting acquainted with, in the bow of his head and the slight blush coloring his cheeks.

He’s resplendent, she suddenly realizes. In all his sorrow and loss, in all his will to find his way to redemption, in all the ripped seams of his soul and the numerous tears in his mind and on his scarlet cheeks. His eyes, above the red drops of blood, find hers and they’re the kind of blue she would be happy to look at for the rest of her life, encompassing all the secrets of the universe and the burning stars collapsing on themselves like a beautiful catastrophe.

Within the irises staring back at her, she thinks she sees flashes of her Destiny.

They leave in the morning, early enough to give an impression of a long travel ahead, late enough to make a show of their departure to all who can report it back to the Red Paladins.

Lancelot rides beside her, like he has since he pulled her from the water. They settle in the forest, taking shelter under the trees that seem to bend themselves as to hide them more efficiently, parting their roots and lowering their branches.

The days following are hard ones, planning, counts and preparation filling them until Nimue cannot breathe under the expectation and importance of it all. She grasps the Sword tighter and tighter between her fingers until it seems to be carved in her palm, her muscles blocked in their movement.

She misses Arthur, but Guinevere’s wry humor and quips are a nice distraction from the fact that their people are on the verge of their final battle, and Lancelot’s presence at her side is comforting to say the least.

The day comes.

The signal is sent from town, and haloed by the rising sun and the morning fog, Nimue turns her horse around to face her army.

She breathes.

Tightens her hold on the Sword.

“The Fey are no strangers to hatred, and no strangers to invaders,” she begins, loud and clear to let her words carry in the wind. “And now, both the Red Paladins and the Ice King have joined in order to kill us all.”

She lets her eyes roam over the crowd, and soon enough, they find Lancelot. His face is the face of so many others, of so many who have lost everything and are desperate to end the war while hoping to salvage their soul. She lets it speak to her, and although her fingers clench around her Sword when she brandishes it above her head, she does not need it to whisper words inside her ear.

“Too many times, they have shed the blood of our brothers and sisters, of our own families ! They have claimed this land as theirs when they burned our homes and our forests, and now they think they can strangle our battle cry and wipe out our kind ! We will show them that this is our land, this is our life, and we will fight to the death for what belongs to us !"

She turns her horse back under the roar of her people, chanting her name and proclaiming her title like a death sentence for what is left of the Red Paladins. And maybe they are right, she thinks when she orders them to charge forward, her Sword sounding like a death knoll when she brings it down with all its strength on her first victim.

I am become Death.

It is a chaos like she has never experienced, worse than the fight at the Mill, worse than the destruction of her village. People scream, land as many blows as they receive, and die in flashes of silver and sputters of blood. She has stopped counting how many she slays, Paladins and Vikings alike, and has lost Guinevere in the mob. Lancelot, she gets glimpses at (maybe she looks for him too often in the middle of a war, but there’s not time for thoughts, only for the comfort the sight of him brings her in a split second) and then she delves back into battle with a new-found energy. She fights and fights and almost doesn’t feel the Sword pulling her down, draining her more and more as the blade gets soaked in blood.

A vicious kick to her stomach sends her flat on the ground, and her head bumps against the soil so hard the flames before her eyes melt into black smoke. For a second, it is like in the Water ; it is the end.

And as she tries to breathe, she feels it, rumbling in the earth like an oncoming storm, sending roots and each twig and blade of grass tumbling towards the enemy, and she whispers to the Earth with tears in her eyes :

“Gawain.”

Its roar echoes through her, in her ribs and in her lungs, and suddenly she does not fear and surges up with her Sword still in hand, becoming first witness to the incredible feat happening before her.

All around, lightning strikes the ground and spreads to silhouettes dressed in red or the enemy’s armour gleaming in the mist, killing them one by one. Their burnt bodies fall to the soil, and immediately get crowned by roots and flowers wrapping around them like a green coffin. Lightning and thunder echo and light up the night, revealing the well-known shape of her father, standing above them like a vengeful God.

As if that was not enough to get her back on her feet and fighting with everything she has, Morgana appears before her, cladded in black silk, not quite herself yet not so different.

Her name passes Nimue’s lips, like a greeting or a prayer, she does not know.

Morgana smiles, the face of her friend opening up like the sky and promising a glorious and joyful future.

“The Gods have decided they have been quiet long enough,” she begins in a plain, soothing voice speaking of power and magic. “It is time for them to fight, and to protect their people.”

And all around them, the world turns upside down, inside out, and everything becomes quieter even as the war takes a turn.

Accompanied by Lancelot who appears at her side like a guardian angel, followed by The Widow, looked over by her Father whose legend still haunts many, and favoured by the Gods, Nimue releases a battle cry and fights for their freedom.

Her hands are still soaked in blood and her muscles ache from effort and her breath has left her body a long while ago and her skin is soaked in sweat, yet the smile on her face is inextinguishable.

There is no feeling comparable to this, she thinks, nothing that comes close to seeing Guinevere, bleeding but alive, smiling as Arthur supports her weight against his side, nothing similar to taking her father’s hand and feeling the magic traveling from his blood to hers such as lightning bolts attracted to metal. Lancelot finds her before everyone else does, making sure she’s okay in a quick glance, narrowing his eyes as they settle on her side, where the armour is pierced through and blood has coiled and clotted.

Without a word, he begs her to go to Pym so she can tend to her wound, but she shakes her head.

There will be time for this later. Now, Nimue needs to be there for her people. Needs to celebrate their victory with them, needs to be present and assist the Fey in any way she still can.

In her hand, the Sword seems to sing.

The festivities carry on well into the night, soldiers laughing and dancing, music echoing in the great meadow where they can now walk freely, and Nimue dances and dances despite her heavy body and her aching side. She does not care for those at all, cares only for Merlin who drags her into a maddened dance, for Morgana who, despite her new status as the Widow, stays with them to see Arthur healed and happy (and maybe she smiles when she sees Guinevere land a kiss on her brother, but no one notices), for Pym with whom she relives the feasts of their village and redoes every local dance they can think of. And Nimue cares for Lancelot, cares for his gaze following her every move and his hand hovering just a few inches from her back when she staggers a bit, cares for the children who come and try to teach him a few dance moves. She cares and cares, but henceforth, she is allowed to care freely and not be afraid to get hurt or have those she loves ripped away from her.

When she has drunk enough and laughed enough and Pym has finally taken a look at her side, Nimue takes Lancelot’s hand in hers to lead him inside her tent, warmed by the fires burning outside.

“Are you alright ?” He asks her, low, almost secretive, like caring is not something he is accustomed to.

She smiles like she hasn’t in a long time, the desire to kiss him probably too visible in the stretch, but he does not say anything, simply looks at her like she is something to admire.

Without a second of doubt, she lifts her hands to his face, traces the outlines of the marks surrounding his tortured eyes even though she cannot think of a good reason to do so, other than she wants to. At the way he shuts his eyes and leans in her touch almost unconsciously, her heart flutters. 

“This is not a mark to be ashamed of. It is the mark of your people, and the Ash people shall now be proud to call you their own.”

A smile graces his features like the Hidden itself has decided to offer him solace and let sunshine finally reach the bottomless well where his heart was buried for so long.

High on victory and heat, she pulls his face down towards her, and revels in the way his eyes widen and his breath hitches right before she kisses him.

Victory itself does not taste this sweet.

Like in their past and in their pain, they mirror each other. When she widens the gap between her lips just a bit, he opens his mouth, yielding to her in the most delicious way. Her impatient fingers curl around his neck, grounding him in the moment, and as the kiss becomes hotter and more passionate, they travel to his collar, to his tunic. She deftly undoes the laces there, wasting no time to shed the cloth and discover the hardened planes of his chest where the scars are less numerous.

Lancelot lets her have her way, would gladly keep this going all night, but she makes a little noise in the back of her throat when he dares lay a hand on her back to press her closer.

And that seals the pact.

The bed is a few feet away, and the way there is too quick to be noticed. Nimue makes another sound when she sits on its edge, Lancelot already sinking to his knees despite her protest when he leaves her mouth devoid of his.

“Lancelot,” she murmurs when he trails kisses down her neck and collarbone, taking his time to lower the tunic and kiss the two scars still haunting her soul but which are, for him, symbols of her strength and rebirth.

Even the way she says his name reminds him of her feverish voice, hot and a bit lost. The ivory skin he discovers reminds him of Rome, those marble statues they taught him to revere and praise, but they pale in comparison of the woman before him, unraveling under his touch and answering his prayers like the saints never did.

“Lancelot,” she says again, harsher, when he’s sucking the tender place below her ear and has not moved in a few minutes.

He pulls back, sending her a confused look, and she shakes her head. Before she can talk, though, he declares :

“I vowed myself to you, body and soul. Let me, please.”

She nods once, curt and efficient, fingers holding his jaw a little tighter. Lancelot takes to unclothing her slower than she would like, he knows by her fidgeting and the way her hips cant forward every time his fingertips brush her skin. When her blouse is gone, Nimue huffs and passes her upper undergarment over her head. Lancelot finds himself subjugated by her skin and her breasts, the tender wave of hair that winds its way down the tempting valley. When he lands a kiss there, just between, Nimue speaks again.

“Is it worship to you ?”

“I do not know,” Lancelot responds, his fingers already gripping her ribs, and she wants this, wants this, calls out to the part of him that is Fey and deciphers the part of him that is a loyal servant of God; of her, now.

She feels an equal to his God now, with this man kneeling at her feet looking up at her through reddened eyes and gripping her sides between his fingers like a rosary.

“Do you wanna pray now ?” She taunts, almost cruel. He’s unapologetic when he answers, cross laid to the side and forgotten in favor of the woman sitting before him.

“No.”

Lancelot takes to learning her body like he learned the Bible, once upon a time, and he takes to unraveling her as much as the monks turned him inside out ; but he wishes to believe, for these hours spent in secret, that he can build her up again and not bring her down. Nimue herself seems impatient to get him naked, unlacing and pulling off his clothes quicker than he can think, until she’s laid on the bed and he’s above her, looking down on her face and desperately trying to find his breath. Of its own volition, his mouth travels from her jaw to her chest, lingering at her hip and awaiting her impatient huff to slide lower. When he looks up at her, all thoughts vanish from his mind as his fingers tighten on her ribs, all but one.

“Lord have mercy,” he breathes out involuntarily at the picture of pure lust and temptation she makes.

“Do I look like a pact with the devil ?” Nimue smirks, daunting, hands thrown above her head in abandon, long raven hair running along her skin, brushing her breasts before fanning across her ribs and falling to each side of her hips, her blue eyes like the deepest ends of the ocean beckoning him to sell his soul and come hither.

“Yes,” he confesses, breathless.

She seems more flattered than anything else, tilts her head to the side and crooks a finger at him.

His queen beckons, thus Lancelot complies.

He whispers her name more times than he’s pronounced his, like a curse and a blessing, but she keeps him from talking when she grabs his hair and pulls him up, up like she is dragging him from Hell and he is ascending right to the threshold of her lips.

There are a few things on this Earth that can flatter themselves of coming close to what Paradise must be like. Having Nimue moaning in his ear the name that was given to him by God, having her tighten her hold on his back and in his hair, seeing her eyes glaze over as her mouth opens in a soundless cry and a soundless prayer, and, at the end, feeling her, overwhelming in her scent and very own power, Lancelot cannot begin to imagine something better.

This is where he belongs, on his knees before his Queen or on his back, looking up at her through heavy eyelids and reverently watching her move at the rhythm she sets.

There can be no paradise without these things, without her accepting every single part of him even as he struggles to do so himself. The Wolf-Blood Witch disappears between the furs, shed in the secret of a moan and a kiss, and Lancelot is glad for it.

“Do you love me ?” She asks in a whisper and it resembles a jab, like she’s daring him to deny it, deny her.

As if he ever could.

“I believe I do.”

“Then why don’t you love yourself ?”

Instead of answering, he occupies his lips on her skin once more, until she cannot speak anymore.

They say forgiveness is the first step to redemption, if such a thing is possible, but Nimue is not so sure. Hatred and resentment still grow in her mind like persistent weeds that Lancelot seems to rip out with every kiss and every touch, and maybe awaking after falling into the Water felt like a rebirth, but she’s never felt more alive than when this man is undone underneath her, rendered absolutely weak and powerless by a simple touch and a simple whisper.

And she has had the Hidden calling out to her, has been named its Summoner unwillingly, but she has never felt as powerful as now. Lancelot’s confession is repeated in her hair and in her skin until she’s covered and soaked in it, until the words make a nest right between her ribs, and she believes it more than she has ever believed in her magic.

“What will you do now ?” She inquires in the morning, laid on her side to observe his profile. She does not want to part ways, but will respect whatever his decision is, whatever path is best for him.

She does not realize yet that he considers his place to be by her side, now and always.

The answer takes some time to come, but Nimue does not apprehend it. And indeed, she is proud and smiling as he says :

“I have had enough of fighting for a life time.”

“You read my mind.”

And thus, the Sword finds its rightful place in the fateful stone, where the Wolf-Blood Witch has wielded it for the first time, where the Weeping Monk has begun his way to redemption, and where, when the time comes, the Once and Future King will draw it for all to see his legitimacy.

By then, Nimue and Lancelot will be legends whispered in the wind and heroes acclaimed loudly during feast, a story of love and salvation and strength weaving its own melody when sung by Men and Fey alike.

Where does it end ?

In fire or water ?

_And maybe you'll stay if I overcome_

_The highs and the lows and the rising sun_

_But I feel a change in the love I'm given_

_I'm turning the page now, am I forgiven?_

_-Love I’m Given , Ellie Goulding_

**Author's Note:**

> So here it is.... I really hope you enjoyed ! Don't forget to leave kudos and especially comments, as they make my day but also help me with both inspiration and writing.  
> Thank you for reading !!


End file.
